


Acoustics

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Face Slapping, Hair-pulling, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, also some blood but nothing major, and a tad of possessive behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can still destroy you, don’t you forget that.”</p><p>"I'd like to see you try."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acoustics

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the movie. Warning for abusive behaviors and offensive language, but Fletcher is in it so that's expected, right?

He’s exhausted, emotionally and physically, and his hands are throbbing, but Andrew has never been so thrilled in his entire life. The sound of the roar of the crowd after the final blaring note and roll of drums is going to be forever etched into his memory. He had surprised everyone: the audience, his dad, Fletcher — even himself (but not really, he hadn’t particularly counted it out and he had always hoped that he could — after all, he was going to be _great)_.  And now he _is_ great.

After the set ends, he quickly wraps his still bleeding hands as accolades are made (his dad is crying, for fuck’s sake), and Fletcher leads Andrew around, guiding him with a sturdy hand on his back. Fletcher never leaves his side and keeps him moving, forcefully pressing his hand and curling his fingers into the space between the shoulder blades when it’s time to go the next person. Andrew is being shown off like a prized show dog.  He loves it; loves the praise, loves the recognition, loves the attention.  He deserves it.

Although Andrew tries to not be conspicuous about it, Fletcher notices, and he leans in from behind him and whispers harshly in his ear, “I can still destroy you, don’t you forget that.”

Filled with confidence, because he’s Andrew goddamned Neiman who just gave the best drum solo ever, Andrew turns to meet his eyes with Fletcher’s and grins slyly while tilting his head up to whisper back, “I’d like to see you try.” 

Fletcher returns the gaze with Andrew, his eyes flickering down at his exposed throat for a moment before returning the eye contact. There’s a moment there, and Andrew’s mouth parts, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he takes in the intensity of Fletcher’s look, one that makes him think he’ll eat him alive. 

He then grabs Andrew’s arm and jerks him away, half dragging him down a hallway.  Andrew smirk grows even more, and when Fletcher turns around and barks, “Shut that dopey-ass expression off your face, you ungrateful little dipshit,” Andrew can’t contain his face breaking out with mirth.

When Fletcher sees, he slides his hand down to Andrew’s wrist and pulls at him again, yanking him hard enough that Andrew trips over his feet a bit to catch up to him. 

They barge into the practice room, Fletcher first, then pushing Andrew in front of him.  The remaining musicians scurry out the room when they recognize the familiar enraged expression on Fletcher’s face, giving the pair quick nods as they leave and let the door slam shut behind them.

The silence is palpable; Fletcher stands with his arms crossed and Andrew with his hands shoved in his pockets. Fletcher is looking— _glaring_ at Andrew as if he’s expecting him so say something. It’s unnerving and is making his heart beat faster, the rhythm of blood pounding in his ears is the only sound he hears.

Andrew doesn’t know what to say, so he settles for, “So, now what?”

Fletcher huffs.  “You think you’re hot shit now, huh?”

Andrew thinks of it as a trick question, but he’s going to claim his credit where it is due.

“Yeah,” Andrew says, hitching up a shoulder casually. “I was really fantastic out there.”

Suddenly, Fletcher rushes towards him. It catches Andrew unaware, and he backs up, stumbling over his feet until he backs into the piano.

“Why?” Fletcher yells. 

Andrew places a hand behind him on the piano to brace himself, frantically thinking of what could be the meaning of Fletcher’s question.  “Why _what_?”

Fletcher lets out a sigh and runs a hand over his head as though it’s physically painful to be talking to someone who doesn’t immediately understand what he’s asking (Andrew doesn’t know, maybe it _could_ be painful for him).  “I want to know why,” Fletcher says again, this time with a normal volume, but with each word enunciated with staccato-like clarity, “ _why_ do you think you were fantastic on stage tonight.”

Thinking back to an hour ago, Andrew smiles as his spirit lifts.  “Because it was meant to be. Because I am great.”

“Because of yourself?” 

“Yes.  Myself.” 

His explanation must not fully please Fletcher because he leans in further, and gets close, his face right to his. Andrew doesn’t look away, he doesn’t dare, so he tries to act nonchalant as possible and ignores how he can feel the warmth of Fletcher’s breath against his neck. 

“But who led you to the road of greatness?” Fletcher asks.

 _Oh,_ Andrew thinks when he realizes what Fletcher is getting to.  He’ll be damned before Fletcher tries to belittle this accomplishment, to make this anything less than it is—

“I could have done it on my own,” Andrew protests.

Then, Fletcher slaps Andrew in the face, hard enough to make his cheek tingle afterward.  Andrew blinks — he’s taken by as much surprise as before when Fletcher slapped him in class in front of the band, but this time it is different. The prickling in his chest is not fear or shame, but a feeling he identifies as _excitement._

Andrew’s breath catches in his throat as he speaks again, “Would it kill you to say you’re proud of me?”

Fletcher slaps him again, and Andrew’s world reels as he realigns himself, his heart pounding.  Andrew smiles, eyes narrowed, “I’m the best fucking thing to ever happen to you.”

This time he’s anticipating the slap, holding his breath for when it comes, letting out a shuttering exhale when the familiar sting strikes him, and closes his eyes to enjoy the sensation. The side of his face burns, he knows that his cheek must be red now, and the excitement he feels pools in his stomach as he realizes how much he likes this — that Fletcher is the one who made it that way. Andrew’s already thinking of something else to say to provoke another slap, except this time after Fletcher hits him he pushes a hand into his hair, grasping at locks of hair with his fingers.

Andrew bites his bottom lip, glancing down at the now minimal space between their bodies before looking back up. “You underestimated me, _I showed you,_ ” Andrew says, and Fletcher makes a fist and _tugs_ at Andrew’s hair, and Andrew kind of hates himself for the squeaky sound he makes, his face flushing and his pants becoming even more uncomfortably tight.

And son of a bitch — Fletcher’s eyes light up in interest?  success? pleasure?  — and pulls at Andrew’s hair again, using his grip to steer him down to the piano bench.  Andrew willingly sinks into the bench, but presses his head into Fletcher’s hand and breathes deeply and cranes his neck to look up at him.  He and Fletcher have the same line of thought, so Fletcher obliges, yanking a fistful of his hair hard.  Andrew lets out a moan and slightly arches his back, and that’s when Fletcher slaps him again, so forceful that tears pool in Andrew’s eyes at the flash of his hand hitting his face and leaves his ears ringing.

“Shut up,” Fletcher says, his voice gravelly. “You manage to do one thing without fucking it up, and now you think you’re invincible.  Well, let me break it down for you in simple terms you maybe might be able to understand, since you're too preoccupied with being a horny little cocksucker.” He pauses, and his hand travels from its place wrapped in Andrew’s hair to Andrew’s neck, grabbing him roughly, his fingers splaying around his neck and his thumb pressed against his jaw. “You need to be taken down a few notches, Neiman.” 

Andrew swallows, feeling the pressure of Fletcher’s hand against his throat.  “Would you be able to?”

He means it as a challenge and Fletcher takes it as one, reaching down and rubs his free hand against Andrew’s straining erection, palming it through his pants.  Embarrassingly, Andrew makes a strangled noise and bucks his hips at the touch. 

Fletcher, of course, laughs at him. Bastard. 

Andrew rolls his hips to get some friction against the other’s hand. “Fuck you.” 

“Maybe, sometime,” Fletcher responds, and Andrew closes his eyes and bites his lip again because _no_ , he cannot think of that now.  He instead focuses on the sensation of being rubbed through the fabric of his slacks, the sound of the air conditioner, the feeling of the piano jabbing him in the back, Fletcher’s other hand falling from his neck and down his chest and into his lap.

After a few moments, Fletcher says, “Look at me.” Andrew hums quietly and keeps his eyes closed, but then Fletcher stops his motions and repeats the command, “Look at me.”  Missing the touch, he opens his eyes to see Fletcher kneeling down in front of him, with his hands resting on Andrew’s belt with an expression that looks like asking permission. For a moment Andrew is struck by the act — he would have expected Fletcher to just _take_ — and he hardly thinks about the consequences before he’s nodding and hurriedly fumbling with his belt to make the process quicker.

Fletcher ends up swatting Andrew’s hands away (probably due to Andrew’s lack of competence; his hands were still messed up from the performance, and he hasn’t had a lot of experience (none) with taking off his clothes with other people before), and Fletcher manages to get his belt and pants unfastened without much gusto.  He then pulls Andrew’s black slacks and boxer briefs down together, Andrew lifting his hips so Fletcher can pull them down to his knees. When Fletcher touches him, he places his hand around Andrew’s erection, running his thumb over the tip and smearing pre-come in teasing little movements that Andrew is sure he will be driven crazy by. He can tell from the expression on Fletcher’s face that that’s his intention.

And then what Andrew thinks Fletcher does in an effort to keep him flabbergasted, Fletcher takes Andrew’s cock into his mouth. Andrew inhales sharply, and falls back into the piano, his elbows clanking on keys, and thinks _holy fucking shit Fletcher is giving me a blowjob._  

Andrew realizes that he must have announced his thought out loud, because Fletcher chuckles, making the reverberations around his dick ache for more.  He throws his head back as Fletcher continues up and down motions on his shaft, every so often his tongue running along the underside.  He’s about to ask how did he get so good at giving blowjobs, he turns his face to the side and notices the door— 

—and that’s when Andrew remembers that that very same door is unlocked, and has very open access to anybody who could happen to walk by.

He’s desperate to thrust forward and he can feel himself getting closer, but he needs to point out the major glaring danger. “The door." 

Fletcher’s response to that is to take him deeper in his mouth, and a few seconds later Andrew comes all too quickly and shouting out, Fletcher swallowing his release before he removes himself from him and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. 

Andrew fades for a few seconds, basking in the feeling, before he feels Fletcher’s hand on him again.  “What…are you doing?”

“You’re nineteen.  You should be ready to go again quickly, bucko,” Fletcher says, stroking him base to tip.  “Maybe you can last longer than a minute and a half this time.”

Andrew chooses to ignore the jab about his premature ejaculation.  “But…anybody can walk in,” Andrew points out.  He imagines it now: his drumming skills getting over shadowed by reports of him getting sucked off by his former teacher.

Fletcher sighs, and Andrew knows him well enough that it’s in annoyance that Andrew could be bringing something up other than what’s happening now, with his hand on his dick.  “So?  Do you really give a shit?”

Andrew thinks about it for a moment and comes to the realization that no, he does not care.  He doesn’t care what anybody thinks — concern of the opinion of others on trivial things is something discarded on the journey to perfection.

He glances down and sees that Fletcher has an erection straining against his pants.  Dazed and arousal burning, Andrew has a thought to turn the tables and take Fletcher unexpected, as he so often does to him.

“Fuck me,” he says with a low voice, and he parts his thighs.  He gets the reaction he wanted — Fletcher snaps his gaze up to his, and there’s that split second of faltering that Andrew was looking for, even though Fletcher quickly regains composure.

“That was my plan,” Fletcher says, spitting on his fingers and then Andrew feels his fingers against his ass as he slips one in. Andrew struggles for a moment at the unique sensation, and the jerk just scoffs at him.

“This might be a little rough,” Fletcher says.

“Good.”  Andrew takes in a sharp inhale as Fletcher inserts another finger and works him.

It’s not long before Andrew is ready to go again, and Fletcher takes him back into his mouth and has deliberate motions, taking care to lick the tip before going back down to suck again. Andrew thinks that it’s probably the greatest feeling ever, until he’s proven wrong when Fletcher’s fingers hook inside him and press against a place that makes him jolt with pleasure and cry out, “Fuck!”

Obviously entertained, Fletcher slides his mouth off of him and with his free hand he reaches up and slaps Andrew in the face, saying, “You better not come early, or you can say _sayonara_ to getting your dick ever sucked again.” 

 _Again?_ Andrew thinks as he makes a strangled moan when Fletcher inserts a third finger, now working him quickly back and forth.

“Do you want it?” Fletcher asks. 

“Yes,” Andrew says, and to his pleasure, Fletcher slaps him harshly. 

“I asked, do you want me to fuck you?" 

“Yes, please I want…I want…”  Andrew’s words trail off into nothing as he focuses on the stimulation, him pressing down and riding Fletcher’s hand.  There’s a devious part to him where he doesn’t want to comply with Fletcher’s request so he can be slapped and slapped again and again, until his face bleeds — but he wants, _needs,_ it so damn bad.

Another slap.  “Say it louder, you pansy-faced pillow biter!”

“Yes!  I want it—”

  _Slap._ “You want what?”

“I want you to fuck me!” Andrew shouts, forgetting that he’s in a public place, and that rooms designed for music have good acoustics, so if anybody were near they’d probably hear.  His face burns from being slapped, and it all feels so great, his chest heaving and him squirming underneath Fletcher’s looming presence.

Fletcher removes his fingers from him, standing and quickly works at his own belt and pants and shoves them down to his knees as Andrew toes off his shoes and scoots his own pants and underwear to his ankles and then kicks them onto the floor.  Fletcher spits in his hands a few times, and then offers his hands in front of him, motioning for Andrew to spit too.  Fletcher then slicks up his own cock, and then sloppily rubs around Andrew’s entrance.

Andrew leans back and wraps his legs around Fletcher’s waist, resting his thighs against Fletcher’s hips as Fletcher positions himself in front of him, bracing one hand on the piano and the other on Andrew’s hip, his fingers digging into his skin.

“You’re a sick fuck,” Fletcher snarls.

Looking up, Andrew says, “You made me who I am.” Give him what he wants, Andrew decides, but under his own terms.

With that, Fletcher pushes into Andrew, Andrew gasping at the shock of pain.  Fletcher goes slow at first, thrusting in and out so Andrew can get accustomed. Andrew eventually becomes less tense and the pain turns to something amazing, and he starts thrusting with the rhythm that Fletcher has set out, driven by the grunting noises that Fletcher’s making.

Fletcher leans forward, burying his face in Andrew’s shoulder, and Andrew compensates by gripping Fletcher’s hips with his hands. Out all the other things he never thought would happen, fucking in a practice room in Carnegie Hall probably would top the list.  Let alone with his conductor-tormentor-mentor. Life is full of surprises.

Andrew is fully caught up in it, fucking is almost as great as a kick-ass performance, he loves the feeling of another warm and close, and the fact that it’s Fletcher — who is probably the only person to understand him, nobody else _gets it,_ understands what it’s like to be okay with destroying yourself to become what you want to be _._ Fletcher isn’t holding back now, and Andrew is starting to come to the realization that spit is not that effective for lubrication, but honestly it’s great — he loves the roughhousing (and as Fletcher will call him later, a _dirty little masochist_ ), and he’s left panting at how Fletcher’s now thrusting against his prostate with every jerk of his hips.  So, it takes a while before Andrew notices that Fletcher is saying something, muttering under his breath next to Andrew’s ear.

“Huh?” Andrew says, but Fletcher doesn’t speak up; he doesn’t seem to be saying it consciously for his benefit. Andrew listens closer, and when he deciphers what Fletcher is saying, he almost loses it right then. 

“Mine,” Fletcher mutters.  “Mine, you’re mine, the only fucking one who—" 

“Yeah,” Andrew responds, his mouth dry and the idea of possession becoming fiery, “I’m the only one.”

At the sound of Andrew’s voice, Fletcher reaches a hand between them and wraps his hand around Andrew’s dick, and growls in his ear, “ _Andrew_.”

Andrew’s shaking, shuttering and not able to keep pace. The bench rocks with the frantic movements they’re making and the ridge of the piano rams into Andrew’s back with every thrust.  He desperately claws at Fletcher, his hips, his thighs, his ass, trying to find something to take hold, he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t get release soon. 

He looks down at where their hips are rolling to meet each other, and looks even further down to where he’s been gripping at Fletcher’s hips.  He sees blots of red at Fletcher’s hips connecting to streaks of red that go down his thighs. It takes a moment for Andrew to realize that it’s blood from his hands that has soaked through the bandages, and along with that realization he comes violently, spasming and shaking, spilling over Fletcher’s hand. He’s only mildly ashamed when he whines out Fletcher name in between expletives during his orgasm. 

It’s not long after that when Fletcher silently comes, a few final thrusts while Andrew lies languid and experiencing the high from his own.

Fletcher doesn’t waste time afterward; he wipes his hands on Andrew’s thighs and takes a denunciatory look at the handprints of blood on his legs that Andrew left before he tucks himself back into his pants. Andrew, however, remains lounging on the piano bench still naked from the waist down, apart from his socks.

“You should clean yourself up,” Fletcher says, motioning towards Andrew as he tucks in his shirt.  “Anybody could walk in and see you laying out like a French prostitute in a fucked-out daze.”

Andrew glances down at the state of himself: shirt half wrinkled and half wet with sweat and sticking to himself, his own come marked in lines on his leg where Fletcher had wiped it, and he can feel Fletcher’s release leaking out of him and down his thigh.  He doesn’t know where to start. 

He stands unsteadily — his back hurts like hell from where it was jammed into the piano and he realizes how sore his ass is when he bends over to step into and pull up his pants.  Fletcher notices the twinge on his face. “It’ll feel better in a day or so,” he says.

Andrew nods as he fastens his pants and belt, the entire time Fletcher keeping a strong gaze upon him with his arms crossed. He jams his feet into his shoes and keeps his shirt un-tucked. 

“There’s JVC practice on Thursday,” Fletcher says. “Be there an hour early.”

“Why?” Andrew asks, and he can’t help the half grin that grows on his face. 

“For practicing, so you won’t fuck up the rest of the band.”  Fletcher grabs his jacket. “What else did you think, dumbass?” 

“Uh, I d-don’t know,” Andrew stutters out. He feels his face flush, all the way to his ears.

Fletcher smirks.  “I know what you’re thinking of, you dirty little masochist. We’ll fuck after practice, preferably somewhere more comfortable than this time.”  He reaches forward and places a hand on the small of Andrew’s back, guiding him out of the room.  “Plus next time, maybe I can tie you up while I slap you around.”

Andrew chokes and coughs as they walk out of the room, and Fletcher gives him a few thumps on the back.  When he recovers from his surprise, Andrew thinks that yeah, he likes those future plans a lot.

It’s going to be great.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I don’t know how this happened to me [buries my face in my hands]. This was partly inspired by the screenplay saying that Andrew is "Fletcher's only Charlie Parker."
> 
> But if you want to go down this path with me, come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com)
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated, thanks for reading!


End file.
